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SPRING

Now the lusty Spring is seen;
Golden yellow, gaudy blue,
Daintily invite the view.
Everywhere, on every green,
Roses blushing as they blow,
And enticing men to pull;
Lilies whiter than the snow;

Woodbines of sweet honey full
All love's emblems, and all cry:
Ladies, if not plucked, we die!

Beaumont and Fletcher

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,

Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven:
All is, if I have grace to use it so,

As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye.

John Milton

TO THE CUCKOO

O blithe new-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice:

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;

From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.

Though babbling only to the vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listen'd to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still long'd for, never seen!

And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place,

That is fit home for Thee!

William Wordsworth

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But to the even-song;

And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a Spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you, or any thing.

We die,

As your hours do, and dry

Away

Like to the Summer's rain;

Or as the pearls of morning's dew

Ne'er to be found again.

Robert Herrick

SPRING

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring! the sweet Spring!

Thomas Nash

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

Under the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat

Come hither, come hither, come hither

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i' the sun,

Seeking the food he eats

And pleased with what he gets
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

William Shakespeare

WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING

I heard a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What Man has made of Man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp'd and play d
Their thoughts I cannot measure,

But the least motion which they made
It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan
To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What Man has made of Man?

William Wordsworth

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